Keeper of Hearts - A Lost Soul Returned
by sovandeprins
Summary: CD/AU Hikari's final battle with Cyrus inside the distortion world did not go as planned – and her life forever changed because of it. Falling into the void, the young girl struggled to survive for three whole weeks, slowly but surely starving to death. While He watched her every move like a hawk. (A piece from my RP blog.) [Complete]


**Keeper of Hearts – A Lost Soul Returned **

Her heartbeat traveled like velvet through his realm. Continuously, _deliberately_ and **alive**. Where time doesn't flow and space is unstable, the life that lingers is one that will die out very, _very_ _soon_.

How it came to be that this child (_and he knew, she was such – what else_?) had entered his realm after the man that held such **wretched** intentions to destroy his own, he could not bring himself to understand. But humans as they were never walked with _right_ _or_ _reason_, never **chose** what was **correct**.  
And when the _forsaken_ son of _God_ can tell you this – the one, **banished** upon creations for _violence_ that festered in his throat like _**thorns of roses**_ – then it would be known that there were _issues in need of solving_.

(_Dialga and Palkia should thank him for saving them from the demise they were about to bring upon the world at the hand of a simple human. They should seek his forgiveness, for messing up as badly as they had when __**he**__ was supposed to be the worst of the worst. Father should claim him as his greatest creation, for he saved the world he so foolishly formed_.)

The girl had followed _before_ the blonde woman had. He knew this, for he felt their every move – their _presence_. _And wasn't that just a little bit tragic_?  
But this was **his** world. Not _theirs_. What they decide is right or wrong means nothing.  
-_Why_ she did it, he wouldn't know for certain. To **save** that man with hatred in his gaze didn't seem plausible – was a _foolish_ idea, if ever there were such a thing. And he couldn't believe it to be so, for he had witnessed her _fight_ _him_ even within this realm that she held no place in.

Brave, yet _stupid_. _And that stupidity had earned her a permanent stay within his home_.

**Pity**.

… _However, __**he couldn't stop watching her**_. With _bruises_ upon her skin that were something he himself hadn't adorned in _thousands_ _of_ _years_ – with her hand, continuously cupping her left shoulder as though she _needed_ to keep it in place. He knew there was blood that stained her knees under a flimsy skirt and coat, yet it brought all the more appeal to her _tiny_ physique.

So small, so _fragile_.

-_When was the last time he ever saw such a thing_? He himself never **bleed** – _could not_, **would not**. Yet _she_ did and the iron scent was _prominent_ through his home no matter where he traveled, no matter how _far away_ or how **close**.

She was _everywhere_ and _nowhere_ and he could not let his eyes off her for long. Graced the sky and space of shifting surroundings, _called_ _for_ _her_ in echoes that bubbled like laughter within his throat which only prompted those same bruised legs to **pump** into a run. _Frantic_. **Frightened**.  
_It was __**delightful**__ to watch her_.  
For her suffering was one of her _own_ doing… Not **his**. _He_ had not trapped her with him. _**He**_ had not pulled her – **only the man**.

_The little __**lamb**__ only had herself to blame_.

So as days turned to a single week, was it so _odd_ that a being as delicate as a human would start to _wither_? As a flower (_something that could not flourish within his domain, no matter his attempts in bringing those things about_) deranged of soil and sunlight and water – _cheeks would hollow and limbs would be less likely to carry their weight_.  
-He often would find her curled up, knees that _would_ _not_ _heal_ against her chest as Pokémon she thought to be _guards_ took turns in keeping an eye on her. Stood and waited, to _alarm_ her of **his** presence whenever he dared get _too_ _close_.

It didn't deter him, it truly didn't. It was, however, **amusing** that she thought herself capable of defending herself against him.  
It was _laughable_ to think she could _escape_ _his grasp_ once he had a hold of her young, small body. Laughable, to think that he would not **touch** **her** if given the chance – would not **drink in the sorrow** that _clouded_ her eyes in waking hours as though it was _**honeysuckle**_ that would bring him nutrients he so _desperately_ _**needed**_.

It was **laughable** that she thought she wasn't _his_. That she thought herself to be her own person, when she clearly – _oh_, _**so**__**clearly**_, belonged to **him**.

And he would have his taste of her. As _one week_ turned into _**two**_, she was _alone_ most of the time. Curled up, moving between homes _stolen_ from worlds long past. Crawling when her limbs would not carry her weight – passing out, as the _minimum_ of nutrients she still carried within her packing slowly disappeared. With each sip of _aged_, **lukewarm water**, the _**worse**_ she faired.

_It was beauty in its most tragic form_. And each breath she took, _seized_ _his_ _own_.

When she slept for longer than was _acceptable_ – he would **cry** for her to hear. To spur her, _keep her as long as was possible_. During nights, he **yearned** to be close. To feel her _breath_ against scaled skin.  
(_Oh, how wonderful it would be_.)  
-The little thing _rarely_ spoke. A terribly, _terribly_ unfortunate thing that was. For when he listened to her, when she heard her _cry_ in misery for safety – _"It hurt, I want to go home please, please please __**please**__**someone**__-"_ – he felt nothing but sinister, _rotten_ and _reprehensible_ _**arousal**_ and _**need**_.

_How he came to enjoy her so much was a __**mystery**_.

Yet her body would not hold on forever. He knew _death_ was approaching as bones prominently protruded from her shoulders. As eyelids became impossible to keep up and only _twitches_ of fingers signaled **life** within the skeletal shape of a girl he came to **desire**.  
-_Could he let her die_? Of course. _She_ would become but a **memory** in his domain – a stain of the oddities that already sit prominent around them.

_Another foreign object in a land of mismatch timelines_.

The question however was; _would he __**let**__ her die_?

The serpent would steal her that night. _Carry_ her in tendrils that should do nothing but **harm**. Took her to where the humans had once exited and knew – _if he wished for it to be so_ – that she could leave as well. But as her back came to rest against the cold, harsh stone that so sparsely decorated the surface, she already laid _dead_.  
**Gone**.  
-_And she had never looked more beautiful_. For he did not _mourn_, did not cry (_impossible, foolish and ugly_) for the shift in gravity rightfully **should've** crushed _ever_ _bone_ _in her body_ in his quick ascend.

_Perhaps he should've been more careful_. But that was not in his _nature_.

Instead, he lowered himself against her. **Caged** her small frame in with his massive one and _sought_ to find where the last of her life _lingered_ before the wretched **ghosts** would steal her away (_was that how it worked? Did humans share the fate of their more powerful counterpart? He feels as though he should know this – but what about them did he truly know_?)

When he found an _inkling_ of her soul – he **selfishly** hoarded it for himself. Kept it, _nurtured_ it – and gave her what she had so unluckily lost.

In a last act, as darkness _enclosed_ her and kept her with him – he would **mark** her.

A _kiss_, and she will never be anything but **his**.

'_Come back to me soon, little lamb. __**I'm waiting**_.'


End file.
